Dichotomy
by iviscrit
Summary: "It had that odd sort of inflection, that bite of London that she had alternately sneered at and smiled at, a dichotomy she never knew how to resolve. It was a sarcastic drawl, an accent derived not from natural exposure to others but from careful practice." For Sachita. Please R&R!


Hello, all! Despite what my prolonged absence from may suggest, I am NOT dead, NOT over fanfiction, and NOT an uncaring author! No, I've been swamped with exams and the end of a wonderful high school career. This piece is for Sachita. You've been a wonderful friend, one I've grown quite fond of in a short span of time! Unfortunately I'm not the best at expressing my feelings (much like Tom!) but I hope you enjoy this story. The fact that it's for you says more than my awkward phrases can! Enjoy!

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Her eyes shot open.

A deep inhale, feeling like her first in a while, sent knives of pain shooting across her chest. Her instinct was to raise a hand to her chest, to let out a strangled gasp as she did so, unnerved and alarmed by the pain. She had never experienced injuries pf this magnitude before, though she was no stranger to the falls of the most competitive of Quidditch matches. The plaster and the bandages panicked her a moment; visions of fractured ribs and internal bleeding flitted through her mind. Everything swam before her eyes- the curtains, neatly pushed open, the bouquet on her nightstand, the cards from her friends and teammates wishing her a speedy recovery, a face-

She was startled and jerked her head up to see whose it was, bringing on another choked gasp as her chest and her head screamed in protest. Who, though? No one had been there a moment ago, unless her visitor was leaning over her now? She willed her eyes to focus, but she felt more and more ridiculous lying there mute with her eyes open and unable to identify her visitor. She let them fall shut again, uncomfortably working her fingers into the sheets of the bed, trying to focus on one simple task. At least her hands weren't visible beneath the layers of starched white cotton.

"I know you're awake, Minerva."

That voice- she was certain she knew it. It had that odd sort of inflection, that bite of London that she had alternately sneered at and smiled at, a dichotomy she never knew how to resolve. It was a sarcastic drawl, an accent derived not from natural exposure to others but from careful practice, attempts to sound more like the educated British elites. Gone were the dropped consonants, gone were the mispronounced vowels. All that remained was that curious cold quality, and that desire to impress through eloquence of delivery. She tried to answer, but her voice died in her throat and she felt lightheaded when her breath was channeled towards words, and not rest.

"It's all right, Minerva. I was here to see you a bit earlier, and you were out cold. You're feeling better?"

It struck her as odd that Tom was here to see her, especially after the increasingly frequent quarrels and her extended time with Bilius concerning Head Boy and Girl duties. She found herself simultaneously peeved and pleased that it was Tom here to visit, not Bilius. She opened her eyes again, and mercifully all came into focus. Tom was bent over her still, so close that she could see every one of his eyelashes, his face parallel to her own. She tried to smile, but it likely came off more as a grimace. "My wand," she managed, her voice hoarse from disuse and her chest protesting at those two syllables.

"Here," he said, hurriedly leaning across her to lift it from the nightstand. "So. You probably haven't heard yet... I think you were still unconscious when Weasely came to see you. Slytherin won."

She knew better by now than to roll her eyes, so instead she furrowed her brow and traced the words "And this is how you make me feel better?" into the air between them.

"Would you prefer I let you wallow in self-pity?" he said easily, waving her words away in the most literal sense. "You were fouled, in case you were wondering."

She let out a groan, half anger, half frustration, and wrote "Obviously. I would never fall from a dive like that otherwise."

"Of course not," he said, taking her spare hand and running his thumb along the bandages. "But Gryffindor still lost. Now wait-" he said, holding up a hand and a wry grin tugging the corners of his lips upward, "let me finish. Gryffindor still lost, largely due to the loss of its captain." He moved a stray lock from her face. "So quick to anger, Minerva," he mocked, trailing along her cheek and resting the finger beneath her chin.

"Why are you here?" Her own voice sounded foreign to her, cracked and weak. She noticed more than ever the difference in their accents: crisp London and sing-song Scotland. Such dichotomy. Why did she only notice after their separation? Was it not as obvious before?

"To see you," he said, looking at her in earnest.

"You see me every day," she said. The more she spoke, the more the pain morphed from sharp lucid slashes to a deeply rooted ache, a sort of ache in her chest that was more bearable solely through its familiarity and consistency.

"Yes, in class, in meetings, on the Quidditch field, at the games," he said, as if he was ticking off a list. "I don't ever really _see_ you anymore."

"Enjoy seeing me like this, do you?" she said, meaning to wound. "Enjoying seeing me hurt?"

His features were arranged in an expression of shock and uncertain hurt feelings, but she thought she detected a trace of his cold amusement even there. "I don't enjoy it."

"Really."

"I don't enjoy it," he said again, and he closed the gap between them for a moment to brush her lips with his own. "You always see the worst in me," he whispered to her, their faces a fraction apart.

"I see the best, too," she murmured back, her hand at his shoulder. Dichotomy cleaved her mind into two factions, one telling her hand to pull him close, the other ordering her to push him away.

Madame Taylor entered to check on the status of her charge, and Tom pulled away with a forceful bit of assistance from the lady in question.

"Visiting time is over, Mr. Riddle," she said decisively, "and I think you know better than to behave like that with a girl after a concussion!"

"I'm fine," Minerva croaked. "Really, I'm much better."

"I'll see you after dinner, Minerva," Tom said, his hand outstretched. "I'll let your friend Pomfrey know that you're awake."

"Thank you," she whispered. Gratitude and resentment, happiness and suspicion, tentative hope and skepticism each clamored for dominance in her shaken mind. She tried to focus on his face as it was after her jibe, to analyze it and glean some meaning from it, be it genuine affection or cold sadism and detachment, anything to still the dichotomy in her mind.

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**A/N: First time I've written properly in a while. I hope you enjoy my labor of thirty minutes, Sachita. For anyone wondering, this takes place in Minerva's seventh year, after the Quidditch match in which a foul resulted in a concussion and several broken ribs for our darling protagonist. Tom's presence is my invention, as is the interpretation of his character. If only I could claim him as well! I think their relationship as portrayed here was suspended, but where this brings them/leaves them is up to you! So feel free to give me your thoughts on this in the reviews! Sachita, I hope you especially enjoyed the fic. :D **


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